


A Test in Patience

by mermansousuke



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Connor being a shit, Connor wearing glasses, Crack, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Undercover, i wrote this on meds ok, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermansousuke/pseuds/mermansousuke
Summary: Five times Connor is forced to call Hank 'dad'. They both suffer.





	A Test in Patience

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again with my trash self lmao. basically, five loosely connected stories of connor having to call hank 'dad' and it's awkward as hell. please dont take these too seriously. im on some drugs for my post-op sx and they make me stupid. 
> 
> enjoy!!

“Remind me again why we agreed to this shit?”

Connor hefts a box onto his shoulder and balances another on his hip. Hank is struggling to carry one. The bottom of the cardboard is not taped adequately to withstand the current weight. Hank had been the one to tape this particular box, but Connor thinks it best not to point this out.

“We agreed to take the case because we are one of the few within the DPD who specialize in android-human crime. And, as Captain Fowler pointed out, our particular skill sets will allow us to infiltrate this group much easier than our other coworkers,” Connor says as he leads the way to the front door of their new home. 

Hank snorts, uneven steps following not far behind. “Skill sets. Yeah. That what they’re calling it these days?”

“That’s what the captain called it, yes.” Connor deftly switches the box on his hip to his knee, balancing it between his leg and the wall so he can fish out the house key the captain had entrusted to him.

The key latches in easily and Connor swings the door open with little fanfare. He allows Hank to go first under the guise of trying to get a better grip on the box he’s currently holding over his knee. The structural integrity of Hank’s box is nearly at its limit.

“Well,” Hank huffs, dropping the box onto the living room floor with a muffled _thump_. Connor sets his down much more gently. “Jeffrey has always been too nice for his own good, so I’m gonna set it to you straight. You look like a goddamned twink and Jeffrey thinks your scrawny ass will fit in real well with these other skinny, starving college kids. I’m here to make sure you don’t screw it up.”

Connor looks to the ceiling and sighs. It’s a mannerism he’s picked up from Detective Reed that he quite likes. It accurately and efficiently sums up what he wishes to convey with little effort on his part.

“I am _not_ ‘scrawny’,” Connor says, a tad defensive. “Second, the term ‘twink’ is widely outdated and carries negative conn—“

“Connor. Do me a favor and shut the fuck up.” Hank stretches his back, then groans loudly when it pops. “Jesus, I’m too old for this shit.”

“You only carried one box,” Connor points out helpfully, twirling the key ring on his finger for lack of anything better to do with his hands. He itches to go bring in the other nine boxes stacked in Hank’s car.

Hank rolls his eyes so hard Connor is briefly worried that they’ll fall out their sockets. “Jesus Christ. Just – go get the other boxes, would ya?”

Connor does, and makes good time. Hank grumbles while unpacking the boxes, throwing things in a haphazard manner that must have some sort of logic to it, though it’s not one that Connor can decipher at a glance.

With Hank’s back turned to him, Connor takes the chance to run a quick scan. The lieutenant’s blood sugar is low, and Connor detects a minor muscle strain in his lower back from poor posture and lack of adequate hydration.

They still need to go grocery shopping, but Connor had packed a few granola bars and water bottles just in case. He digs them out of one of the boxes and kneels down beside Hank to hand them over. “You need to eat, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks,” he says gruffly, snatching the water and energy bar from Connor. He sets it aside so Connor leaves him be and goes to unpack the other boxes. 

They settle into an easy rhythm. An hour later, Connor hears the telltale crinkle of the protein bar being unwrapped and wisely says nothing when Hank’s mood significantly improves from that point after.

What probably felt like an eternity for Hank but was in actuality three hours and thirty-two minutes, they’re finally finished settling in. Connor is pleased to note everything is where it needs to be when he does a cursory scan of the rooms. Despite Hank’s grumbling, they make a great team.

“Great work, Lieutenant,” Connor says as he comes back into the living room where Hank is currently lounging on the couch. “It seems like everything is in order.”

Hank scoffs. “Don’t act so surprised.” A pause. “And it’s not ‘Lieutenant’ right now. Don’t blow our cover.”

“You’re right. Sorry, Dad.” The moment the sentence leaves his vocal unit, a heavy silence stretches between them. Connor has a peculiar urge to exit the room and not return for maybe forever.

“Okay. That was fucking weird,” Hank says finally, breaking the tense hush that had fallen over the room. He runs a hand over his beard, eyes flicking around but never settling on one thing for long.

Connor feels some of the tenseness in his shoulders melt away at the implication that Hank, too, may be feeling some measure of awkwardness. “I agree.”

“Shit. We need to get our shit together before we’re seen in public.”

“It’ll take some getting used to,” Connor admits, and runs a finger along the outer seam of his jeans. They’re not as comfortable nor as flexible as the pants CyberLife had issued him, but it’s currently the style preference of many young adults, and Connor has to blend in. He still misses his own pants, though.

“Want to go grab a bite and forget this ever happened?” Hank asks as he pulls himself up from the couch with a grunt.

Connor does. “Yes. I would like that.”

Hank makes a valiant effort to throw his crumpled wrapper into the small waste bin set along the floor separating the kitchen and living room. He misses. Connor quietly goes over and places the wrapper in the bin.

“Thanks. Hey, don’t forget your glasses,” Hank says and Connor can’t help but wrinkle his nose. Hank laughs. “What, not a fan?”

“You know I’m not,” Connor says, a little cross. Nevertheless, he unhooks it from his shirt and puts them on. They constantly slip down the bridge of his nose. “It’s impractical.”

Hank does not care about his suffering. “It’s your disguise so quit complaining. You’re not the only one who had to make some changes.”

The lieutenant scruffs a self-conscious hand over his freshly cut hair. It’s shorn short with the top a little longer – it looks good, Connor thinks. Makes him appear younger and highlighting the blues of his eyes.

Connor’s glasses, on the other hand, do not look good. They’re clunky and annoying, and Connor thinks they sit awkwardly on his face. The urge to snap them in half is strong.

“They look fine,” Hank says with the tone of someone who’s said this many, many times, which he has. Connor does not believe him any of those times. “Hurry up. I’m starving.”

“Fine.” Connor is getting better at expressing his displeasure through his tone, but Hank tends to ignore this new development as he does with anything he finds inconvenient.

They decide to walk. More accurately, Connor decides that if they’re going to order something unhealthy, they can, at the very least, walk there. Hank is not pleased. Connor doesn’t care.

A mile and a half later, a small lot with a few food trucks parked in a messy half-circle comes into view. Hank makes a beeline for the hotdog truck so Connor trails behind him. Hank orders a hotdog with only one topping at Connor’s insistence, and Connor buys a small vanilla milkshake to maintain appearances.

The lot is very crowded, but they manage to snag a table near the sidewalk and away from most of the congested foot-traffic. There’s a light drizzle so Connor pops open the umbrella attached to the table. The atmosphere reminds him of their meeting at the Chicken Feed all those months ago, when Hank had been skeptical and Connor had been apologetic and insistent.

That had been one of their first, positive conversations. It’s a fond memory, one that Connor keeps tucked away in his memory files for safekeeping.

“So,” Hank says, snapping Connor out of his musings. “Excited about your first day of school tomorrow?” Hank is grinning so Connor levels him with an unimpressed look. “What? A father can’t have a healthy interest in his son’s education?”

Connor sets his plastic cup down firmly. “No.”

“Don’t be like that,” Hank laughs and Connor shakes his head, rubbing his fingers along his temple in a gesture he’s seen Hank do many times.

His fingers stutter over the place where his LED used to be, the synthetic skin smooth to the touch. He feels oddly naked without it. Vulnerable. He wouldn’t mind the glasses half as much if he could just have his LED back.

Something must show on his face because Hank’s smile fades a few seconds later, replaced with a worried expression. “Hey, kid. You alright?”

“Fine,” Connor says a touch too quickly. Hank’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly unconvinced. He runs a finger one more time over his temple before placing it back on the table. “Nervous, maybe.”

“Hmm. About school?” The way he says it implies he is talking about something else. Connor believes he is inquiring about their current undercover case, so he nods. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll be fine. You’re smart, and a fast learner. You’ll fit right in.”

Connor has his doubts. While he’s done extensive research into the university as well as updating his human integration program to include the most recent pop culture and dialect, Connor can’t help the uneasiness that settles in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Hank is right. Perhaps this is beyond their capabilities.

Connor keeps silent and pretends to sip his milkshake. 

College is…an experience.

Connor takes the automated bus despite Hank’s insistence he drive him there. The walkways are constantly flooded with harried students and Connor finds himself having to fight the crowd more often than not.

He observes that many of his peers carry some type of overly-caffeinated beverage on them at all times (there had been a memorable moment when Connor’s sensors had picked up vodka disguised as water in someone’s water bottle, but he’d kept the information to himself). After this observation, Connor stopped by the local coffee shop on campus to purchase a small, black coffee. It reminds him of Hank.

His classes had been fairly boring, but Connor supposes that is to be expected. Hank had told him university was probably going to be uninteresting to an android that could calculate over a thousand possible scenarios in two seconds. Connor had promptly told him it actually takes him an average of _0.53_ seconds to compute those scenarios, which had resulted in Hank scuffing him across the head.

Connor, despite his reservations, slots into college life seamlessly. Finding the group responsible for the android hate crimes disguised as hazing is almost too simple. They arrest the group three months later once he’s obtained the proper amount of evidence, plus some. Connor wishes they’d at least make it a challenge.

Overall, a success.

“Good job on your first undercover op,” Hank says over dinner.

Here, Connor doesn’t have to pretend to eat. He hadn’t realized how exhausting it is to pretend to be human. His LED is firmly reinstalled, and Connor brings his fingers up to brush it periodically, the familiar ridges soothing. 

Sumo lies by their feet, tail thumping happily every time Connor or Hank looks his way. The Saint Bernard had missed them dearly in their four months apart.

“Thank you.” Connor is pleased with the results. His whole body feels warm, but jittery at the same time, like he has excess energy that can’t be contained. He bounces his leg, he twiddles his fingers, and shifts his posture every few seconds. “I’m glad we were able to bring them to justice.”

“Nah,” Hank says after swallowing a bite of his vegetarian stir-fry (Connor’s making, of course). “You’re just happy you don’t have to wear those dorky glasses anymore.”

“So you agree, then. That they looked bad.” Connor feels betrayed. Hank had told him they’d looked fine. Hank is a filthy liar.

Hank snorts and shovels more food into his mouth before replying. “What’d you do with them anyway?” Avoiding Connor’s sort-of question.

Connor rolls his shoulders in a self-satisfied way, and shoots Hank a sly grin. “On the record, I disposed of them in the appropriate recycling bin. Off the record, they may have ended up in a bonfire at the last party I attended as a college student.”

Hank barks a laugh and slaps the table. Connor smiles, too. “Shit,” Hank says, wiping his eyes. “You make me proud, kid.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell ya what, though. Having you call me ‘dad’ for four months was probably the most awkward four months of my life. As long as we don’t gotta do that shit again, I can die happy,” Hank says, taking a sip of his water.

Connor nods. “Agreed.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! hope you liked it -- if you did, please leave a comment and/or kudo :)
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://mermansousuke.tumblr.com/)! come scream with me about our favorite android bby boy


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